


Take Heart

by SapphyreLily



Series: Shield and Sanctuary [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Comfort, M/M, Post Apocalyptic AU, mute by choice character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 10:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11461443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: In the midst of everything - the world collapsing around them - they manage to find peace, and solace in each other.





	Take Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Another song challenge with [Mika](http://archiveofourown.org/users/oilpaints/pseuds/oilpaints)!
> 
> Based on [Intertwined](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZEttwxdTTQ) by Dodie Clark

The soft sound of skin scraping against stone, a light dragging as fingers trace the bumps in the wall. He tenses, even as he stays huddled in his corner, eyes peering out from over the wall of his knees.

Wide, unblinking. Alert.

There is the tiniest sliver of light from a crack in the ceiling, the half-moon having reached her apex, poking moonbeams through. He is safe enough where he is, hidden from the light, a weapon in hand, muscles tense, in case.

_In case, in case, in case._

It is the mantra of his life, ever since he woke in a world tearing itself apart.

The footsteps are almost inaudible, the sound of skin on stone all but gone. The person is within striking distance, and if it is an enemy, they will be dead when the light hits their face.

But instead, a whisper in the darkness.

_“Eita?”_

He relaxes just a fraction, muscles straining as he uncurls, arm reaching out to tap his sharp blade against stone.

_Ken-ji-rou._

Three tiny steps, an almost silent shuffle, and he steps into the light.

The tension bleeds out of his muscles, and he sheathes the knife, the _clink_ of scabbard against stone an echo of trust.

The newcomer squats in the moonlight, arms reaching up behind his head, sloped bangs swinging. Long locks cascade over his shoulders as he pulls the poisoned chopsticks free, setting the weapons beside the blade.

He opens his arms; a silent invitation.

Kenjirou lurches forward, hands reaching, grasping his forearms, fingers sapping heat from skin.

A shock trills through him at the temperature difference, but he is otherwise accustomed to it. He pulls him forward until their foreheads touch, sharing each other’s breath.

Slowly, he wakes, uncurling from his defensive position, shifting so their fingers twine together, and pulls him deeper into the cave.

The inside is familiar to them, scraps of cloth covering flattened hay and leaves – a makeshift bed. Even without their sight, they guide each other atop the bedding, shedding shoes and pressing closer.

Arms wrap around torsos, cheeks press together, feet take turns rubbing warmth into chilled toes. There are no words, only the sound of them trying to warm up, trying to keep alive for another night.

They lie down, Eita hugging Kenjirou from behind, uncaring that his long hair is nearly choking him, that the strands taste bitter and smoky in his mouth.

Kenjirou's hands cover his, a reassuring pressure, and he exhales softly, allowing sleep to wash over and take him.

\-----

They do not go out the next day, or the next. In soft touches, Kenjirou has told him of the next fight to come, and their individual clans may be involved.

So they stay. There is water enough for both of them, if they take sips and do not move, food sufficient for a day if they nibble whenever hunger strikes, but never more than two bites a time.

Faintly, they can make out the screams of the dying and clashes of metal against metal, perhaps bone cracking if they listen hard enough.

But they are safe. No one has ever found their hideout, and if they do, it is not easy to get past the deep pits and poisoned spears.

They can remain, until the most of the fighting passes, and then they will venture out to scavenge.

The lack of food and water makes them tired, so they sleep. And when they wake, they will sit in silence, listening for intruders.

(When they are certain there is no one, they may indulge in a bit more.)

(Hands sliding under layers of clothing, tracing soft skin that hasn’t seen the sun in months.)

(Fingers combing through hair, removing as much dirt and leaves as possible.)

(And sometimes, sometimes; a treat. Lips pressing together, gliding over facial features. A display of passion that neither of them have energy for.)

Most times, they lie down, taking turns to hug the other, fingers tightening around each other’s, ears pressed to a back, revelling in a heartbeat still strong.

(Faintly, far away, they may make out the crash as someone falls to their doom, the yell as someone stabs themselves on an unseen spike.)

(The cleanup will be disgusting when they leave, but for now, they are fine.)

(Safe in their safe haven, in each other’s arms.)

\-----

_A heart beats too fast, breathing too laboured._

_Gasps from a throat that has abandoned sound, rasping, wheezing exhales._

_He twists in his arms, turning to him, to offer comfort in the only way he knows how._

_He pulls him close, fingers threading through shorn locks, pressing his face into the crook of his neck._

_Arms tighten around him, and the collar of his shirt tightens as his partner bites down on it, suppressing his screams._

_He rubs circles into his back, pretending not to feel the slide of water down his neck, trying to absorb the shudders shaking his body._

_It was probably another nightmare, another one that he will not ask the origin of unless he wants to tell._

_They have their own demons, but no one wants to remember._

_(Kenjirou knows that he wants to forget.)_

\-----

Sometimes, they leave their hideout together.

When they are certain the fighting is over, Eita will strap his knife to his waist, and help Kenjirou put his hair up with the chopsticks. They take bodies down from where they’ve been speared, throwing them into the bottomless pits.

Their feet are sure as they take the safe path, avoiding the traps. Light trickles slowly towards them, creeping tendrils that change their surroundings from black to grey to brown.

Then they crouch, eyes searching the surroundings, watching for threats, sweeping the perimeter. A tap on the back of a hand for safety, the all-clear. They creep out into the sunlight.

Their surroundings are rusty red-brown, spilled blood congealing and oxidizing. Bodies have been pecked clean of flesh, and only their sturdy packs and weapons remain. They start forward, fingers squeezing and releasing, moving towards adjacent corpses, senses alert.

Their fingers are quick, lifting only what is of use, and their bags are heavy long before they are tired. They turn to each other, and Kenjirou mimes a question.

Eita nods.

They reach for each other, lifting veils and pinning them in place, skin brushing skin for luck and reassurance. Then they turn away, making their way towards the remnants of their clans, clutching a memoir in their hands.

(They will open them later, and see the charm that their partner has prepared, a reminder in the days between their reunion.)

(A feather, a pretty pebble, or maybe a coin, lifted from one of the fallen.)

(Anything that holds the warmth of their hands for that few moments, a sliver of themselves.)

_(“I’ll be waiting.”)_

\-----

Sometimes he wakes in the dark of the night, hugging himself, gasping silently, refusing to let any sound escape.

All around him, people slumber on, the people he has chosen to protect and stand by, and who – supposedly – will do the same for him.

He does not trust them fully.

(Nor do they, him.)

It is a thought he does not entertain often, because to think of how little affection is lost between people with which his life depends on – it frightens him, that people can be that apathetic.

(He can feel himself dying inside, a little more every time he witnesses something cruel, or even something done out of self-preservation.)

(He knows better. _He knows better._ )

(But it’s so _hard._ )

He must not feel for them, because they are all competing for the same resources – the same limited resources – but every time his blade feeds, a little more of his soul withers.

(He is a shell, a mechanical biochemical mess, trudging along with people he does not know, if only for the faintest hope of staying alive.)

Sometimes, the smog at night clears a little, and the moon shows her face. Eita tries to catch the moonbeams, the tiny white lights oddly comforting to him.

_(And as he sleeps, he dreams, and recalls a face dappled by moonlight, eyes lit by the fire to survive.)_

_(His lips twitch in his slumber, and his body relaxes a little.)_

Sometimes, he spends his nights wondering when he will be reunited with the only one who can make him smile.

(Being parted never works for them, but it is the only way to survive.)

(He hates having to remind himself that.)

\-----

At times, it’s hard to breathe.

Not just because his lungs are broken, no – whenever he stumbles, and there is no steady hand to catch him, or without the exasperated puff of air over his head – he feels incomplete, like his good lung has withered and left him breathless.

(Times like this, he wishes he never found his current clan, because it might have been easier to stay with Eita, even if it means they would have died earlier.)

He is alone in the wasteland, though surrounded by people, and he puts his head between his knees, breathing deep. He remembers his ‘voice’ – his touches and roving eyes, his little exhales.

His silence, so loud, so informative.

His ever-ready shoulder, constantly listening ears; always prepared to be his pillar of support.

(Even in the panic, despite the nightmares and horrible scenes he sees.)

(Even when he lashes out or breaks down, even when he is naught but a shell of himself.)

Kenjirou doesn’t know what he has done to deserve him, but he holds this gem to himself, greedily, selfishly.

(He lies on his back, face to the sky, whenever he is not with Eita. He watches the smog crawl across the sky, eyes alert and mind churning, holding a tiny charm to his chest, filling it with the beat of his heart.)

(And in the darkness, he whispers his secrets, his fears and hopes, and hopes the non-existent wind carries them away.)

\-----

_They come back together in the dark of the night, under the moon in hiding and the curls of smog in the sky._

_At first, they don’t recognise each other, clothed as darkly as they are. They approach each other with a wariness that has seeped into their bones, a carefulness in each step and spring. They circle each other slowly, praying, hoping, that their opponent is not headed for the same safe haven they see._

_But they are, and when one missteps, the other leaps forward, dagger yanked from under robes, sand flying up in clouds._

_And the other; he knows instantly._

_He may not have much sight, but he does have his hearing, and he knows the sound of that dagger as it slides out of its scabbard, he knows that particular swish of limb and weapon as it cuts through air._

_So he rolls away, hands tearing away the veil on his head, pulling out his favoured chopsticks, hair flying free._

_It completely obscures his vision, but he can still hear, and holds up his weapons, fending off the killing blow._

_The_ clang _of metal on metal is intimately familiar, and his attacker jumps back, still in an attacking stance, even as his free hand reaches for a precious match._

_The match is struck against the dagger handle, and held up to appraise his opponent. The other rises fluidly, sweeping his hair out of his face, then stands with arms limp at his sides._

_The match dies out, but they know enough; they have seen enough._

_Weapons are sheathed, steps are taken forward, hands grip forearms tightly._

_The tendons that stand out against their palms are familiar; tight, knotted with tension, warm and pulsing with life._

_They press their foreheads together briefly, fierce longing shooting through them, evident in the strength that they use._

_Then they separate from each other, and hurry towards their safe haven, taking turns looking back, checking for others, making sure no one has followed them._

\-----

They stand together after they have made it past the traps and secured the entrance with more safeguards, face to face, palms pressed together. There is no light to see each other by, but they will make do – they always have, and always will.

A twitch of a hand, and their fingers part, bending into the space between the other’s, intertwining. Their foreheads press together once more, though they dare to breathe this time, exhausted and relieved exhales, sobbing and gasping, relief pumping through their veins.

And they sink to their makeshift bed, tapping out messages on each other’s skin, telling of what they have seen and what they wish they hadn’t. They share their panic and hope, pressing ever closer, seeking solace in each other.

(Hands grip so tight they make limbs grow numb, and nails dig so deep they draw blood.)

(But they don’t care, they don’t care.)

They may lose everything, they may lose the battles in the world outside, the small things like food and water - but they have each other, and they will never falter.

They have their own worries, their own demons, the things that make them panic and break down and apart. But they have found a home, a solace in each other, and they will not give up or give in otherwise.

_(Words, soft, whispered in the dark.)_

_(Promises that bind them together, promises to keep living, even though the world keeps falling apart and burning.)_

"I'm afraid."

_Tap, tap._

_(Don't be.)_

"My clan might kill me in the next raid."

_Tap._

_(How?)_

"Either they kill me or leave me for dead. Apparently I'm a liability."

A clenching of fists on his chest. He puts his hand over one of them, huffing softly.

"They think a woman is a burden to them. Maybe it's time I left."

A fist twists under his, pulling his hand away, words traced into his palm.

_Leave them, and come with me._

He shakes his head, knowing he will hear the rustling. "You know the dangers."

_I don't care._

"You know what they do to people who are together. Please, Eita, please."

_I would die to protect you._

"But I don’t want you to die."

_We can survive on our own._

"Can we, really?"

(He isn't being mean. He's being realistic.)

The hands around his squeeze, and he feels him move, and something soft brushing against his lips.

He turns to accept, opening his mouth. He can feel the promise passed between them, and it lingers, even when he pulls away too quickly.

A calloused hand on his cheek, something warm and hard knocking against his forehead, breath puffed against his lips. More words scribbled on his palm.

_I will never leave you. We can decide later._

He smiles into the darkness, though he can't see it.

"Okay."


End file.
